1000 Kisses: A Quick Kiss, On A Busy Morning
by MzElektra
Summary: Life is made up of millions of moments. Relationships are made up of thousands of kisses. Each one is its own story. (This is an ongoing series of vignettes of Harry & Draco's relationship. In no particular order. Think of the numbers as the order they're recalled in by them, but I'm relating them as I choose.) Inspired by the poem 'Out of Catullus' by Richard Crashaw


It still hits Draco at the oddest times.

On the nights when Scorpius is first born, and he's petrified and exhausted and Harry comes home late and grumpy from work, Draco feels it then, like a drumbeat under his tired skin.

In the hospital, when Lyra is born and he first sees the tuft of her vibrantly ginger hair, it yanks at his gut. Daily, while he attempts to tame the ridiculously wayward locks Al inherited from Harry, it stings in his chest. He meets Pansy for lunch and she points a crimson-tipped nail at the smear of grape jelly (the only kind Scorpius likes) left behind on his robes by sticky little hands and it squeezes his lungs.

When he slips on one of Callie's black and yellow striped stockings—the ones she calls her "bee legs"—that's been left on the stairs and nearly falls. When Al turns seven and starts refusing to hold either his or Harry's hand in public anymore. Every time Scorpius sighs (sounding very like Draco's mother) and says, " _Honestly_ , Pop." Even when he has to pick up the damp, cold towel Harry has left on the bathroom floor _again_.

He feels an especially hard jab when nine-year-old Lyra throws herself dramatically into a kitchen chair—jeans dirty and torn, freckled cheeks flushed and red hair in a snarled, crooked ponytail (no doubt from playing rough with the Muggle twins who live next door)—crosses her arms over her chest and declares she's going to marry a girl. _And_ a boy. Or maybe someone who's _neither_. Then she stomps out, shouting, " _And I want you to sign me up for football!_ " over her shoulder while Harry sputters laughter against Draco's neck and Draco's heart somersaults in his ribcage.

It wells in his throat, nearly strangling him and garbling the words of the healing spell he murmurs while Harry sits on the bed beside Callie, rubbing her narrow back in slow circles while she coughs, coughs, coughs all night.

Perhaps, most keenly, he feels it first thing in the morning when he comes downstairs. He is always the first awake, and the house at Grimmauld is uncommonly quiet as he puts the kettle on. Soon, Draco knows, one of the children will wake—most likely Al, or Lyra—and set off a chain reaction until they all tumble, rumpled and yawning, into the kitchen demanding breakfast. Harry will follow them down, hair a disaster and a sleepy smile on his face, answering whatever myriad questions Al has come up with during the night. (The child is one enormous question mark, greedy for knowledge. Draco likes to blame this on Hermione, often and loudly and within her hearing, which just makes her snort.)

In those hushed moments before his family stirs, when he is alone, it fills Draco from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, warm and thick and sweet as honey. His body hums with it.

Happiness. Contentment. Love.

He sips his tea and thinks about the day ahead, the Healer appointments and school projects and playdates and the promised visit next month to see Mother in Paris that he really should begin planning for, as strong arms slip around his waist and squeeze. Harry's chin rests on his shoulder. Draco reaches down with his free hand to twine their fingers together, feeling the warm metal of Harry's wedding band against his knuckle.

"I can't believe this is my life."

Harry chuckles, brushes warm lips against his ear. The back of his neck. "Having regrets?"

Above their heads feet thump-thump-thump down the hall. A door slams closed. Someone knocks a fist against it, or perhaps kicks it. Lyra yells, "Darn it, Scorp, I gotta _pee_!"

From the top of the front stairs come a small, congested cough and Callie says, "I don't feel so well, Daddy," just as Al calls down, "Papa, Callie threw up again! It's all in her _hair_ , too."

Draco exchanges a glance with Harry, grimacing as he pictures Callie's long, pale hair all matted with muck, and pulls out of his hold. He tips his chin at the ceiling, where their two oldest have progressed to a shouting match.

"Can you do something about that? I'll get Callie."

Harry nods and kisses him again, this time on the lips, and deeper, though brief. "Mmmm, tea," he says with a grin, and then turns to go play referee. And Draco feels it, piercing him right through the heart.

"And Harry?"

When Harry glances back, brows raised, Draco blows him a kiss. His cheeks burn at the silliness of the gesture, but he doesn't care.

"Not a one."

It takes Harry a second to recall his earlier question, but when he does, his grin spreads. "Me either."

And then they both wince at the sound of flesh smacking flesh and shout of alarm from above. Harry hurries toward the back stairs and Draco steps out into the living room, bracing himself for the sight of his youngest daughter smeared in sick.

It is worse than he thought. The smell of her has apparently been too much for Al, who has quietly puked on his own feet.

"I can't believe this is my life," he murmurs again. But he's smiling as he does. Because this is his family, and he loves them more than he can ever express.

He thinks back to that first kiss—the first _real_ kiss—when he slid his fingers between Harry's and held his hand. It was maybe then that he felt the beginnings of the emotions that fill him now.

No, even as he leads his two small, stinky, sniffling charges to the master bathroom, Draco doesn't regret a thing.


End file.
